So many days... so many moons since Isengard. So many moons since Grima's mind, heart, and will shattered into the smallest fragments. He had traveled many leagues with Saruman since, not particularly caring where they went. Most of the time he was not even in his right mind; his eyes were wild, flaring. He had managed to keep his mind clear, for the most part, till Isengard had fell, and then it seemed as if the last vestiges of humanity had crumbled with the tower of magic and stone. All ties to warmth and light had been severed. His body was now so wracked and twisted that it left him in constant pain, a cringing and whining animal. There was no spark of life left in him.
He barely recognized Gandalf, when they encountered him on the road, and Aragorn the young king. He didn't recognize the wizard he had once sworn to curse for upseting what little peace had come to his life, what little importance. It had been Gandalf he had blamed for his turning-out from Edoras, and his brutal flight into exile. He didn't even recognize the wizard now.
"Get up, you idiot!" he heard Saruman shout, and then felt the blow of the staff to his head. "Turn about! If these fine folk are going our way, then we will take another. Get on, or I'll give you no crust for your supper."
It was the old song that Saruman had sung since they had left Isengard. Since Grima no longer cared what physically befell him, it was easy to accept Saruman's torments and beatings. Food was harder to abstain from, so it was the usual threat he received when Saruman actually required him to do something. It was a pitiful existance, but Grima no longer heeded or cared.
"Poor old Grima! Poor old Grima! Always beaten and cursed. How I hate him! I wish I could leave him!" The words spilled out of Grima's mouth, as usual, without him having more than half an idea of what he was saying. Something bad about Saruman, no doubt... something whimpering and puling and weak. He was always weak.
"Then leave him!" said Gandalf.
Grima's eyes flickered, wide and terrified, to Gandalf. He didn't recognize the other wizard, but he recognized his power and magnificence, and it frightened him.
They passed by the fine company, and Saruman stopped to have words with some little folk along the way. Grima paid very little attention to this; his mind was wandering again, back to Isengard and the palantir and the source of all his misery. He was roused from his daymares only by another vicious kick from Saruman, and then they were on their way again.
He should have marked the little folk, the hobbits (as Grima later learned to call them), when he had seen them. He should have remembered their names, their faces, and their swords. So much later, after Saruman had usurped the vally of the little folk and made it his own, corrupted and tainted as everything else he touched (poor Liriel, Grima thought in a brief moment of lucidity), Grima was made to do his dirtiest deeds.
Bury Lotho! Sharkey (for so Saruman was now called) said. Bury Lotho he did, although he was terribly hungry. He managed to catch a rabbit instead, though, a pale and skinny coney that he tore apart with his bare hands and teeth. Kill Lotho! he had said before, and when Grima stabbed the knife into the sleeping body it seemed as though he stabbed Sharkey, and he repeated the motion over and over with much glee. Grima found and killed and buried other hobbits too, at Sharkey's bidding. It became his favorite task; at least he could spend a little time in the woods, and maybe catch something to eat.
He didn't venture near the few hobbit holes that were still inhabited. The scent of tea and bread and a fire was still too painful to remember.
The hobbits finally came and ousted Sharkey. Grima was secretly glad of it, perhaps they would kill him, too. But as much as he longed for the peace of the grave, he was terribly afraid of it as well, and hid in one of the huts until his master called.
"Worm! Worm!" Sharkey called, and out of a nearby hut he came, crawling almost like a dog. "To the road again, Worm, these fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!"
Grima slunk after Sharkey, drawing back with a hiss as Sharkey attempted, finally, to kill one of the hobbits. But the mail shirt snapped the dagger, and nothing but bitter words was exchanged between the two. They walked on between the halflings, who were gripping their weapons tightly.
"Wormtongue!" called the hobbit whom Sharkey had stabbed. Grima paused, hearing himself called by someone with a kinder voice, a voice almost like... "You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways."
Rest. Food. When had been the last time he had had either of those? So long ago that the words were almost foreign. Too, the hobbit had a look about him, of kindness and compassion mixed with the wisdom of ages, that reminded him of a long ago lady in what seemed a different life, a better life. He looked back at the hobbit, and contemplated remaining.
"No evil?" Sharkey cackled, breaking Grima's thoughts into pieces again. "Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don't you, Worm? Will you tell them?"
Grima cowered, shrinking from the voice that knew all, that scraped dirt over his grave and buried him alive... now the halflings would kill him for sure, and in most unpleasent ways. "No... no."
"Then I will," said Sharkey. "Worm killed your Chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn't you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me."
Nice. Grima could faintly remember a time when he might have been described as nice, when his company had been deemed 'nice.' And Sharkey had given the orders that had destroyed it all... he glared at Sharkey with wild-eyed hatred. "You told me to; you made me do it," he hissed.
Sharkey only laughed. "You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!"
He kicked Grima in the face, knocking him over, then turned and stalked off. Grima lay there in the dirt and dust, blood seeping from his lip, whiteness in front of his eyes. He thought of another time, in the fog and mist and dankness of a cavern, and other blood-flecked lips. He thought of the wizard who had been the cause of it all.
With a wild cry, Grima leaped up. A knife leapt to his hands so easily that he was hardly aware he gripped it before he had jerked Sharkey's head back and slit his throat from ear to ear. Blood gushed over his hands; he ignored it. The lady avenged, he ran down the lane, shrieking what he might have thought was a battle cry.
He never felt the three arrows that struck him down before he had gotten more than ten paces.
The pain was gone. It was the first realization he had, the second was that he seemed to be in a land of fog and mist and distant song. Edoras, it almost seemed. Was he back in Edoras? He must be, he must have fallen asleep on the road after a short journey. How foolish of him. Theoden-king would need him; he should not stay out so late. Grima slowly got to his feet, still careful of a body that no longer needed any care, and started to walk forward. He must have been late indeed, because here was someone come looking for him with a lantern.
"Grima... Grima! There you are..." Liriel, of the bright blue eyes, was standing at the crossroads outside the city. "You were a day late, we had just gone to look for you."
Grima smiled, hesitantly and shyly, remembering very little of the journey he was supposed to have made. "I think I must have been asleep for a very long time..." he ventured.
"Silly Grima," she returned affectionately, lacing her arm through his. "The king asks after his advisor, worrying that something might have happened to you. He was to have sent Eomer and an entire eored after you, but I persuaded him to let me find you instead. Now come on... if we hurry, there will be time for chai before supper..."
Grima smiled, and sighed contentedly, and disappeared into the mists.
He barely recognized Gandalf, when they encountered him on the road, and Aragorn the young king. He didn't recognize the wizard he had once sworn to curse for upseting what little peace had come to his life, what little importance. It had been Gandalf he had blamed for his turning-out from Edoras, and his brutal flight into exile. He didn't even recognize the wizard now.
"Get up, you idiot!" he heard Saruman shout, and then felt the blow of the staff to his head. "Turn about! If these fine folk are going our way, then we will take another. Get on, or I'll give you no crust for your supper."
It was the old song that Saruman had sung since they had left Isengard. Since Grima no longer cared what physically befell him, it was easy to accept Saruman's torments and beatings. Food was harder to abstain from, so it was the usual threat he received when Saruman actually required him to do something. It was a pitiful existance, but Grima no longer heeded or cared.
"Poor old Grima! Poor old Grima! Always beaten and cursed. How I hate him! I wish I could leave him!" The words spilled out of Grima's mouth, as usual, without him having more than half an idea of what he was saying. Something bad about Saruman, no doubt... something whimpering and puling and weak. He was always weak.
"Then leave him!" said Gandalf.
Grima's eyes flickered, wide and terrified, to Gandalf. He didn't recognize the other wizard, but he recognized his power and magnificence, and it frightened him.
They passed by the fine company, and Saruman stopped to have words with some little folk along the way. Grima paid very little attention to this; his mind was wandering again, back to Isengard and the palantir and the source of all his misery. He was roused from his daymares only by another vicious kick from Saruman, and then they were on their way again.
He should have marked the little folk, the hobbits (as Grima later learned to call them), when he had seen them. He should have remembered their names, their faces, and their swords. So much later, after Saruman had usurped the vally of the little folk and made it his own, corrupted and tainted as everything else he touched (poor Liriel, Grima thought in a brief moment of lucidity), Grima was made to do his dirtiest deeds.
Bury Lotho! Sharkey (for so Saruman was now called) said. Bury Lotho he did, although he was terribly hungry. He managed to catch a rabbit instead, though, a pale and skinny coney that he tore apart with his bare hands and teeth. Kill Lotho! he had said before, and when Grima stabbed the knife into the sleeping body it seemed as though he stabbed Sharkey, and he repeated the motion over and over with much glee. Grima found and killed and buried other hobbits too, at Sharkey's bidding. It became his favorite task; at least he could spend a little time in the woods, and maybe catch something to eat.
He didn't venture near the few hobbit holes that were still inhabited. The scent of tea and bread and a fire was still too painful to remember.
The hobbits finally came and ousted Sharkey. Grima was secretly glad of it, perhaps they would kill him, too. But as much as he longed for the peace of the grave, he was terribly afraid of it as well, and hid in one of the huts until his master called.
"Worm! Worm!" Sharkey called, and out of a nearby hut he came, crawling almost like a dog. "To the road again, Worm, these fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!"
Grima slunk after Sharkey, drawing back with a hiss as Sharkey attempted, finally, to kill one of the hobbits. But the mail shirt snapped the dagger, and nothing but bitter words was exchanged between the two. They walked on between the halflings, who were gripping their weapons tightly.
"Wormtongue!" called the hobbit whom Sharkey had stabbed. Grima paused, hearing himself called by someone with a kinder voice, a voice almost like... "You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways."
Rest. Food. When had been the last time he had had either of those? So long ago that the words were almost foreign. Too, the hobbit had a look about him, of kindness and compassion mixed with the wisdom of ages, that reminded him of a long ago lady in what seemed a different life, a better life. He looked back at the hobbit, and contemplated remaining.
"No evil?" Sharkey cackled, breaking Grima's thoughts into pieces again. "Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don't you, Worm? Will you tell them?"
Grima cowered, shrinking from the voice that knew all, that scraped dirt over his grave and buried him alive... now the halflings would kill him for sure, and in most unpleasent ways. "No... no."
"Then I will," said Sharkey. "Worm killed your Chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn't you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me."
Nice. Grima could faintly remember a time when he might have been described as nice, when his company had been deemed 'nice.' And Sharkey had given the orders that had destroyed it all... he glared at Sharkey with wild-eyed hatred. "You told me to; you made me do it," he hissed.
Sharkey only laughed. "You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!"
He kicked Grima in the face, knocking him over, then turned and stalked off. Grima lay there in the dirt and dust, blood seeping from his lip, whiteness in front of his eyes. He thought of another time, in the fog and mist and dankness of a cavern, and other blood-flecked lips. He thought of the wizard who had been the cause of it all.
With a wild cry, Grima leaped up. A knife leapt to his hands so easily that he was hardly aware he gripped it before he had jerked Sharkey's head back and slit his throat from ear to ear. Blood gushed over his hands; he ignored it. The lady avenged, he ran down the lane, shrieking what he might have thought was a battle cry.
He never felt the three arrows that struck him down before he had gotten more than ten paces.
The pain was gone. It was the first realization he had, the second was that he seemed to be in a land of fog and mist and distant song. Edoras, it almost seemed. Was he back in Edoras? He must be, he must have fallen asleep on the road after a short journey. How foolish of him. Theoden-king would need him; he should not stay out so late. Grima slowly got to his feet, still careful of a body that no longer needed any care, and started to walk forward. He must have been late indeed, because here was someone come looking for him with a lantern.
"Grima... Grima! There you are..." Liriel, of the bright blue eyes, was standing at the crossroads outside the city. "You were a day late, we had just gone to look for you."
Grima smiled, hesitantly and shyly, remembering very little of the journey he was supposed to have made. "I think I must have been asleep for a very long time..." he ventured.
"Silly Grima," she returned affectionately, lacing her arm through his. "The king asks after his advisor, worrying that something might have happened to you. He was to have sent Eomer and an entire eored after you, but I persuaded him to let me find you instead. Now come on... if we hurry, there will be time for chai before supper..."
Grima smiled, and sighed contentedly, and disappeared into the mists.